by Lee Child
Lee Child
and
Andrew Child
* * *
THE SENTINEL
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
About the Authors
Lee Child is one of the world’s leading thriller writers. He was born in Coventry, raised in Birmingham, and now lives in New York. It is said one of his novels featuring his hero Jack Reacher is sold somewhere in the world every nine seconds. His books consistently achieve the number-one slot on bestseller lists around the world and have sold over one hundred million copies. Lee is the recipient of many awards, most recently Author of the Year at the 2019 British Book Awards. He was appointed CBE in the 2019 Queen’s Birthday Honours.
Andrew Child is the author of nine thrillers written under the name Andrew Grant. He is the younger brother of Lee Child. Born in Birmingham, he lives in Wyoming with his wife, the novelist Tasha Alexander.
Also by Lee Child
KILLING FLOOR
DIE TRYING
TRIPWIRE
THE VISITOR
ECHO BURNING
WITHOUT FAIL
PERSUADER
THE ENEMY
ONE SHOT
THE HARD WAY
BAD LUCK AND TROUBLE
NOTHING TO LOSE
GONE TOMORROW
61 HOURS
WORTH DYING FOR
THE AFFAIR
A WANTED MAN
NEVER GO BACK
PERSONAL
MAKE ME
NIGHT SCHOOL
NO MIDDLE NAME (stories)
THE MIDNIGHT LINE
PAST TENSE
BLUE MOON
For more information on Lee Child and his books,
see his website at www.leechild.com
For Kara and Sarah, with thanks
ONE
Rusty Rutherford emerged from his apartment on a Monday morning, exactly one week after he got fired.
He spent the first few days after the axe fell with his blinds drawn, working through his stockpile of frozen pizzas and waiting for the phone to ring. Significant weaknesses, the dismissal letter said. Profound failure of leadership. Basic and fundamental errors. It was unbelievable. Such a distortion of the truth. And so unfair. They were actually trying to pin the town’s recent problems on him. It was … a mistake. Plain and simple. Which meant it was certain to be corrected. And soon.
The hours crawled past. His phone stayed silent. And his personal email silted up with nothing more than spam.
He resisted for another full day, then grabbed his old laptop and powered it up. He didn’t own a gun or a knife. He didn’t know how to rappel from a helicopter or parachute from a plane. But still, someone had to pay. Maybe his real-life enemies were going to get away with it. This time. But not the villains in the video games a developer buddy had sent him. He had shied away from playing them, before. The violence felt too extreme. Too unnecessary. It didn’t feel that way any more. His days of showing mercy were over. Unless …
His phone stayed silent.
Twenty-four hours later he had a slew of new high scores and a mild case of dehydration, but not much else had changed. He closed the computer and slumped back on his couch. He stayed there for the best part of another day, picking at random from a stack of Blu-rays he didn’t remember buying and silently begging the universe to send him back to work. He would be different, he swore. Easier to get along with. More patient. Diplomatic. Empathetic, even. He would buy doughnuts for everyone in the office. Twice a month. Three times, if that would seal the deal.
His phone stayed silent.
He didn’t often drink, but what else was there left to do? The credits began to roll at the end of another disc. He couldn’t stomach another movie so he retreated to the kitchen. Retrieved an unopened bottle of Jim Beam from the back of a cabinet. Returned to the living room and put a scratchy old Elmore James LP on the turntable.
He wound up asleep, face down on the floor, after … he wasn’t sure how long. All he knew was that when he woke up his head felt like it was crammed full of rocks, shifting and grinding as if they were trying to burst out of his skull. He thought the pain would never end. But when his hangover did finally pass he found himself experiencing a new emotion. Defiance. He was an innocent man, after all. None of the bad things that had happened were his fault. That was for damn sure. He was the one who’d foreseen them. Who’d warned his boss about them. Time after time. In public and in private. And who’d been ignored. Time after time. So after seven days holed up alone, Rutherford decided it was time to show his face. To tell his side of the story. To anyone who would listen.
He took a shower and dug some clothes out of his closet. Chinos and a polo shirt. Brand new. Sombre colours, with logos, to show he meant business. Then he retrieved his shoes from the opposite corners of the hallway where he’d flung them. Scooped up his keys and sunglasses from the bookcase by the door. Stepped out into the corridor. Rode down in the elevator, alone. Crossed the lobby. Pushed through the heavy revolving door and paused on the sidewalk. The mid-morning sun felt like a blast furnace and its sudden heat drew beads of sweat from his forehead and armpits. He felt a flutter of panic. Guilty people sweat. He’d read that somewhere, and the one thing he was desperate to avoid was looking guilty. He glanced around, convinced that everyone would be staring at him, then forced himself to move. He picked up the pace, feeling more conspicuous than if he’d been walking down the street naked. But the truth was that most of the people he passed didn’t even notice he was there. In fact, only two of them paid him any attention at all.
The same time Rusty Rutherford was coming out of his apartment, Jack Reacher was breaking into a bar. He was in Nashville, Tennessee, seventy-five miles north and east of Rutherford’s sleepy little town, and he was searching for the solution to a problem. It was a practical matter, primarily. A question of physics. And biology. Specifically, how to suspend a guy from a ceiling without causing too much permanent damage. To the ceiling, at least. He was less concerned about the guy.
The ceiling belonged to the bar. And the bar belonged to the guy. Reacher had first set foot in the place a little over a day earlier. On Saturday. Almost Sunday, because it was close to midnight by the time he got into town. His journey had not been smooth. The first bus he rode caught on fire and its replacement got wedged under a low bridge after its driver took a wrong turn twenty miles out. Reacher was stiff from the prolonged sitting when he eventually climbed out at the Greyhound station so he moved away to the side, near the smokers’ pen, and took a few minutes to stretch the soreness out of his muscles and joints. He stood there, half hidden in the shadows, while the rest of the passengers milled around and talked and did things with their phones and reclaimed their luggage and gradually drifted away.
Reacher stayed where he was. He was in no hurry. He’d arrived later than expected, but that was no major problem. He had no appointments to keep. No meetings to attend. No one was waiting for him, getting wo
rried or getting mad. He’d planned to find a place to stay for the night. A diner, for some food. And a bar where he could hear some good music. He should still be able to do all those things. He’d maybe have to switch the order around. Maybe combine a couple of activities. But he’d live. And with some hotels, the kind Reacher preferred, it can work to show up late. Especially if you’re paying cash. Which he always did.
Music first, Reacher decided. He knew there was no shortage of venues in Nashville, but he wanted a particular kind of place. Somewhere worn. With some history. Where Blind Blake could have played, back in the day. Howlin’ Wolf, even. Certainly nowhere new, or gentrified, or gussied up. The only question was how to find a place like that. The lights were still on in the bus depot, and a handful of people were still working or waiting or just keeping themselves off the street. Some of them were bound to be local. Maybe all of them were. Reacher could have asked for directions. But he didn’t go in. He preferred to navigate by instinct. He knew cities. He could read their shape and flow like a sailor can sense the direction of the coming waves. His gut told him to go north, so he set off across a broad triangular intersection and on to a vacant lot strewn with rubble. The heavy odour of diesel and cigarettes faded behind him, and his shadow grew longer in front as he walked. It led the way to rows of narrow, parallel streets lined with similar brick buildings, stained with soot. It felt industrial, but decayed and hollow. Reacher didn’t know what kinds of businesses had thrived in Nashville’s past, but whatever had been made or sold or stored it had clearly happened around there. And it clearly wasn’t happening any more. The structures were all that remained. And not for much longer, Reacher thought. Either money would flow in and shore them up, or they’d collapse.
Reacher stepped off the crumbling sidewalk and continued down the centre of the street. He figured he’d give it another two blocks. Three at the most. If he hadn’t found anything good by then he’d strike out to the right, towards the river. He passed a place that sold part-worn tyres. A warehouse that a charity was using to store donated furniture. Then, as he crossed the next street, he picked up the rumble of a bass guitar and the thunder of drums.
The sound was coming from a building in the centre of the block. It didn’t look promising. There were no windows. No signage. Just a thin strip of yellow light escaping from beneath a single wooden door. Reacher didn’t like places with few potential exits so he was inclined to keep walking, but as he drew level the door opened. Two guys, maybe in their late twenties, with sleeveless T-shirts and a smattering of anaemic tattoos, stumbled out on to the sidewalk. Reacher moved to avoid them, and at the same moment a guitar began to wail from inside. Reacher paused. The riff was good. It built and swelled and soared, and just as it seemed to be done and its final note was dying away a woman’s voice took over. It was mournful, desperate, agonizing, like a conduit to a world of the deepest imaginable sorrow. Reacher couldn’t resist. He stepped across the threshold.
The air inside smelled of beer and sweat, and the space was much shallower front to back than Reacher had expected. It was also wider, effectively creating two separate areas with a dead zone down the middle. The right-hand side was for the music lovers. There were a couple dozen that night, some standing, some dancing, some doing a bit of both. The stage was beyond them, against the far wall, taking up the full depth of the room. It was low, built out of beer crates with some kind of wooden sheeting nailed across the top. There was a modest speaker stack at each side, and a pair of metal bars hanging from the ceiling to hold the lights. The singer was front and centre. She seemed tiny to Reacher. Five feet tall at the most, and as thin as a needle. Her hair was in a perfect blonde bob that shone so brightly Reacher wondered if it was a wig. The guitar player was to her left, nearest the door. The bassist mirrored him on her right. They both had wild curly hair and high, sharp cheekbones, and looked so alike they could have been twins. Certainly brothers. The drummer was there too, pounding out the beat, but the shadow at the back of the stage was too deep for Reacher to see her clearly.
The left-hand side was for drinking. There were six round tables, each with four chairs, and four stools at the bar which was set against the wall, opposite the stage. It was kitted out with the usual array of beer pumps and bottle fridges and spirit dispensers. A mirror ran its full width with a jagged star-shaped fracture mid-way up in the centre. The result of a bottle being thrown, Reacher thought. He liked the way it looked. It added character. But it wasn’t enough to outweigh the biggest flaw in the place. The section of ceiling in front of the bar. Hanging from it were dozens of bras. Maybe hundreds. There were all kinds of styles and colours and sizes. Where they’d come from Reacher didn’t want to know. It seemed sleazy to him. Unnecessary. And bad from a practical point of view. To get to the bar anyone reasonably tall would have to either push his way through or stoop down beneath them. Reacher waited until the band finished their last song then bent at the waist and pivoted around until he was close enough to snag a bar stool. He was the only one on that side of the room, and he couldn’t tell from the bartender’s blank expression whether that was a situation he was happy with or not.
‘Coffee,’ Reacher said, when the bartender finally acknowledged him. ‘Black.’
‘Don’t have coffee,’ the bartender replied.
‘OK. Cheeseburger. Fries. No lettuce. No pickle. And a Coke.’
‘Don’t have cheeseburgers.’
‘What food do you have?’
‘Don’t have food.’
‘Where around here does?’
The bartender shrugged. ‘Don’t live around here.’
Reacher took his Coke and turned to look at the stage. He was hoping another band would set up but there was no sign of activity. Half the audience had drifted across and congregated around the tables. The rest had already made for the door. With no more music and no hope of food Reacher figured he might as well finish his drink and follow them out. He continued in the direction he’d been going before he was lured inside, but when he reached the alley at the far end of the building he heard a scuffling noise. He turned, and almost collided with the guitar player from the band he’d just heard. The guy took a step back, his eyes wide with fear and his guitar case raised like a shield. The singer almost piled into him from behind. Reacher held up his hands, palms facing out. He was aware of the effect his appearance could have. He was six feet five. Two hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was a dishevelled mess. He was unshaved. Children had been known to run screaming at the sight of him.
‘I’m sorry, guys.’ Reacher attempted a reassuring smile. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
The guitarist lowered his case but he didn’t step forward.
‘Great performance tonight, by the way,’ Reacher said. ‘When are you playing again?’
‘Thanks.’ The guitarist stayed back. ‘Soon. I hope.’
‘Here?’
‘No chance.’
‘Why? Bad crowd?’
‘No. Bad owner.’
‘Wait.’ The singer glared up at Reacher. ‘Why are you here? Do you work for him?’
‘I don’t work for anyone,’ Reacher said. ‘But what’s bad about the owner? What’s the problem?’
The singer hesitated, then held up one finger, then another. ‘He wouldn’t pay us. And he ripped us off. He stole a guitar.’
‘One of mine,’ the guitarist said. ‘My good spare.’
‘Really?’ Reacher stepped back. ‘That doesn’t sound like good business practice. There has to be more to the story.’
‘Like what?’ The singer looked at the guitarist.
‘Like nothing,’ he said. ‘We finished our set. Packed up. Asked for our money. He refused.’
‘I don’t get it.’ Reacher paused. ‘A place like this, music’s the draw. Not the décor. That’s for damn sure. You need bands to have music. And if you don’t pay the bands, how do you get them to play? Sounds like a self-defeating strategy to me. You must have done something
to piss him off.’
‘You don’t get the music business.’ The guitarist shook his head.
‘Explain it to me.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because I’m asking you to. I like information. Learning is a virtue.’
The guitarist rested his case on the ground. ‘What’s to explain? This kind of thing happens all the time. There’s nothing we can do about it.’
‘Bands don’t have the power.’ The singer put her hand on the guitarist’s shoulder. ‘The venues do.’
‘Isn’t there anyone who could help you put things right? Your manager? Your agent? Don’t musicians have those kinds of people?’
The guitarist shook his head. ‘Successful musicians, maybe. Not us.’
‘Not yet,’ the singer said.
‘The police, then?’
‘No.’ The singer’s hand brushed her jacket pocket. ‘No police.’
‘We can’t involve them,’ the guitarist said. ‘We get a name for being difficult, no one will book us.’
‘What’s the point in getting booked, if you don’t get paid?’
‘The point is, we get to play. People hear us.’ The singer tapped the side of her head. ‘You can’t get discovered if you don’t get heard.’
‘I guess.’ Reacher paused. ‘Although if I’m honest, I think you need to consider the message you’re sending.’
‘What message?’ The guitarist leaned one shoulder against the wall. ‘Suck it up. That’s all we can do.’
‘That’s how we’re going to make it,’ the singer said. ‘In the end.’
Reacher said nothing.
‘What? You think we’re doing the wrong thing?’
‘Maybe I’m out of line.’ Reacher looked at each of them in turn. ‘But it seems to me you’re telling the club owners it’s OK to rip you off. That you’re happy not to get paid.’
‘That’s crazy,’ the singer said. ‘I hate not getting paid. It’s the worst.’